


smother

by warmth



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A little, Angst, Cuddles, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, shortfic, they both just need all the cuddles okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 14:19:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warmth/pseuds/warmth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are arms around his waist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	smother

**Author's Note:**

> cross-posted from tumblr. Just a quick little thing, while my other stories take a rest. Hope you enjoy :) Written for Ciara, who is a doll.

 

There are arms around his waist.

Pale, gangly, mole-freckled arms he is more familiar with than he should be are around his waist, a pair of long fingered hands entwined at his belly button. Derek blinks down at them, eyebrows furrowing. 

“What are you doing.” It isn’t even a question, more of a resigned sigh gone flat.

Outside, the sky is grey, thick with water only escaping as a drizzle, pitter-pattering against the windows.

No answer. Not that he was expecting one.

Rolling his eyes, Derek continues rifling around in the cabinet, motions now stilted with Stiles’ viselike grip around his midsection. Worn plaid rasps against his bare skin when he stretches forward, fingers scrabbling at the box of cocoa puffs Isaac thought it would be funny to put at the way back of the shelf where Derek never looks. He makes a triumphant hum when he manages to drag it out from the dusty depths.

Stiles snickers, a sound that is the smallest bit off. “Big bad starts his day with cocoa puffs?”

He attempts to level a glare over his shoulder. It doesn’t work out so well, if the way Stiles’ laughter loudens is any indication. Derek makes a pained sound in the back of his throat. All he wanted to do was enjoy his morning cocoa puffs.

“Why are you here?”

Thumbs draw themselves little circles, a distraction he is sure Stiles is aware he is performing.

“You haven’t pushed me off.” Stiles murmurs against his back after a beat, not really answering the question at all. Derek can feel the boy’s lips pulling up into the ghost of a smile against the sharp curve of his shoulderblade.

“Only because I know you would keep coming back. I’m too tired to deal with your,” He pauses, nose scrunching, “ _particular_ brand of stubbornness.”

A lazy snort is the only response, the brunet’s breath fanning out against the nape of his neck. Derek tries not to inhale too deeply, knowing how fucking creepy it looks. Then again, Stiles is mimicking an octopus and using him as a prop, so there’s a lot wrong with this whole scenario.

“How did you even get in?” He asks around a yawn, reaching over and grabbing a bowl out of the dish rack. His cereal rattles around against the glass, tiny and dry and the only simple thing he has.  

“Stole Isaac’s keys last time we went to the movies.”

Stiles’ forehead is pressed in between the bones like wings beneath his skin, weighted, making him hyper aware of their proximity. He stills for a moment, calming himself to the beat of his heart, always a shade too quick, pulse quick and interrupted and entirely too easy for him to pick out, even when they aren’t together this way. It’s a testament to how much their relationship has grown when he is no longer startled by the way they keep themselves lonely -- no, not lonely, simply alone together, really.

This isn’t the first time Stiles has come to his door, but it is the only time he has thrown himself against Derek rather than at his couch, or his floor, demanding a place to sleep for the night when his own bed smells too much like antiseptic and whiskey. It’s the only thing they provide constantly nowadays, what with Beacon Hills settled into it’s own for the time being.

He waves the thoughts away, sliding the milk from the fridge and tossing the empty carton into the trash from across the room. There would be shame in the way he takes pride in Stiles’ muffled, “so cool.” if the teen didn’t sound so elated about it.

“You should just ask for your own already,” Derek replies, placing a hand over Stiles’ and steering them toward the couch. “You’re here more than he is.”

Stiles shuffles along sleepily and it is then, without looking, he can tell that exhaustion is clinging to his loose form, gathering in the hollows under his eyes and in the lines of his jaw. Something is strange about today, or maybe special, and Derek feels a certain uneasy worry cultivate in the pit of his stomach.

“Are you offering?”

“Sure.” He shrugs and the boy makes a noise of protest as he is shaken slightly from his former position. Derek smirks.

“You should readjust,” Derek adds as an afterthought, hovering slightly as he goes to sit down before remembering he could probably crush his companion. Stiles sighs, but does as advised, pulling back.

He hates that he’s disappointed when Stiles does, the lack of warmth jarring him momentarily.

Derek settles himself down into the cushions that still burns with the tang of blood in his nose, underneath Isaac’s cologne, Erica’s shampoo, Boyd’s laundry detergent. Once he has himself seated, Stiles drops himself into his lap. There is a small glance passed between them, charged, before he hides his face against Derek’s neck and breathes in once, twice, a third time, too deep not to mean anything. It takes him a moment to realize the boy is trembling.

He sets his cereal bowl down, knowing it will get soggy and he’ll eat it anyway, but not really caring for once.

“Stiles?”

Derek’s palms run down his spine, carefully sliding over the notches, strong and hardened, just like the person they belong to.

“Don’t ask,” He mumbles, “Please, don’t ask.”

It has always been a wonder to him, how quickly Stiles can drop and reassume the mask he has decorated, embellishments carved out so painstakingly, lest anyone suspect it were not his real face.

“Okay.” Derek says, nodding and rocking them slowly the way his mother would, because that is how this goes.

Stiles comes to him, or he comes to Stiles, and they seek something no one else can give them. On occasion, there are kisses, small, meaningless things that they let distract them for a while between the heavy glances and heavier breathing. This is comfort among monsters, among broken people who pretend they are not so if only to let their lungs grow soft for one night.

It is so easy to act like there is nothing between them when there is everything between them.

He presses a kiss like a butterfly’s wings to the boy’s temple.

“I thought you needed a hug. I’ve always thought so.” Stiles confesses, tender and weatherbeaten, “And then I thought maybe I needed one, too. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” He whispers, almost on reflex. The apologies are habit on Stiles’ tongue, he knows, but it doesn’t stop him from wishing they were something he could wash away if he filled the teenager’s mouth with secondhand words. “You never have to apologize to me.”

Stiles doesn’t reply, but there is nothing to be said, between the brokenhearted boy and the wolf with the flames burning inside, eating up it’s insides. There is nothing to lose, though, if there were.

No one finds them this way, curled up on the couch, lips tentatively meeting when the cereal has gone to mush and the faucet has stopped it’s dripping. Everyone knows to stay away.

“I care for you.”

That is the only one they will allow here, in their sanctuary, in the place no one can touch them. Where their slow kisses are everything with the pretense of nothing, where their glances are no longer scrutinized, where their hearts race with the thrum of a love that doesn’t solve their problems, only pushes them to the side for another hour.

And if they lay down, pressed together in every possible way on that threadbare couch with the sharp scent of blood, comforted for another day, if they fall asleep together beneath his sister’s old blanket and promise to make their feelings into something tangible late that night, maybe, just maybe, that is their secret to keep.


End file.
